


Dogs of War

by Lyl



Series: New World [2]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Apocalypse, Community: apocalyptothon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyl/pseuds/Lyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gibbs had seen many things in his life, but this was a first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dogs of War

Gibbs had seen many things in his life, but this was a first. Standing on the roof of the tallest building in Laramie, Wyoming, the orange-red glow from the Yellowstone volcano was clearly visible against the ash-dark sky. It was a glowing beacon in the dark, and the fact that they could see it almost a full state away illustrated just how much of a disaster this was.

“That is – not good,” said a quiet voice from behind him. Gibbs didn't say anything, because there was nothing he could say. McGee was right. This was so incredibly 'not good' that there wasn't even a word to describe it.

Another rumble shook the ground, seconds before another bright flare of lava shot into the air in the distance. No one said a word as the far-off roar of the volcano hit them a good minute after the latest eruption.

No one would ever look at Yellowstone in the same way ever again, Gibbs was certain.

No one would look at the world the same again, either.

“What are we going to do, Boss?” asked McGee into the quiet. Gibbs glanced quickly in his direction before turning away, because he really wasn't sure. They definitely couldn't stay here, and he didn't think they could get any closer to the disaster area. Even this far away the ash and dust that clogged the air and blocked out the sun was close to choking their lungs. They didn't have nearly enough breathing apparatus to outfit everyone, even the few stragglers they'd picked up along the way were more than they'd been prepared to deal with.

Turning away from McGee, he caught the eye of Mike McGuire, the rescue team leader who had been glad for the extra hands as they headed out of Albuquerque. Looking out across the barren landscape, they both knew that there was nothing else they could do here. Every person who had not been immediately evacuated was dead, the victims of the toxic gas released in those first few days of the eruption.

The rescue team had been sent north trying to find as many survivors as possible. But the sad truth was that the entirety of Wyoming and Montana were dead zones, as well as parts of the Dakotas, Colorado, Nebraska and Utah Fewer and fewer stragglers had joined their group as they trekked north , until they finally realized they hadn't found a live person in days.

It had taken much longer than expected to reach even this close to the supervolcano. The roads had been filled with abandoned – and not so abandoned – vehicles, resulting in a cross-country/back roads trip through three states. Heavy trucks and buses were not meant for off-road travel, which kept their speed considerably slower than any of the smaller vehicles.

Gibbs remembers gazing along the Interstate, filled with ghost cars and trucks, and wondering which post-apocalyptic movie DiNozzo would compare this to. He'd immediately banished the thought, because thinking of his team back in DC, facing their own problems caused by this disaster, wasn't going to help anyone in their current situation. He'd seen the same thought in McGee's eyes and reminded himself that at least one of his team would be kept safe, if it was the last thing he did.

“Wallace and Sanchez came back from their scouting,” McGuire said quietly to Gibbs, both knowing the effort was wasted on the crowded roof.

No one said anything, because they all knew what he was really saying. There was nothing worth going forward for, because anyone who was miraculously not dead yet, was not able to be saved. It was only a matter of time.

“Back to Albuquerque?” asked Gibbs, though he didn't think that was in the plans. Wide-scale communications had gone down a day after they left the southwest, leaving only short-wave radios and the few hard-wired phone lines left standing. The last message they'd gotten from outside their own group, was to save as many people as they could. And to survive.

That told them more than any message from the higher ups could have – they were on their own. The transmission was being repeated on most frequencies, trying to reach as many people as possible.

They had been left to fend for themselves, in a world that now resembled the scene from some big budget apocalypse film.

Decisions needed to be made, such as where they were going, how they were going to get there, and what kind of internal structure they would need to survive. Actually, that last part Gibbs was pretty sure he knew the answer to, because any kind of democracy or voting structure wouldn't work in this situation. Someone needed to be in charge and make the decisions, not stand around and argue with fifteen civilians until the dust and ash choked them to death.

McGuire seemed to know that too, because in a few seconds of eye contact, they sorted out the issues of who was in charge. Gibbs had no problem with deferring to McGuire; he'd been a senior NCO in the marines, leading his men but leaving the big decisions to the officers - after nudging them in the right direction. Even after fifteen years in NCIS, he slipped back into the roll like a second skin. He had experience in a war zone, but McGuire knew disaster zones.

“We should head east,” said McGuire, loud enough that every person on the crowded roof could hear him. “Pick up as many survivors as we can find while getting as far away from the disaster area as possible.”

A few murmurs rolled through the group, but most were rescue workers and knew that it was the best course of action. The dozen or so civilians that had made it this far with them voiced the fewest protests, but still protested nonetheless. They would be problematic, but nothing Gibbs hadn't dealt with before.

Never had the costs been so high, though.

~!~

They backtracked a bit, heading back into Colorado but missing Denver as they headed east. They nicked Kansas briefly before crossing into Nebraska. They were still mostly rescue workers, and the desire to search for survivors was still strong despite everything. A permanent settlement was the last thing on most of their minds, too focussed on pushing forward.

Along the way they picked up even more survivors, which meant they had to scavenge for more heavy vehicles and supplies. McGee was by his side the entire time, for which Gibbs was more than grateful.

It was in North Platte that the reality of this 'new world' really set in for everybody.

They'd gone into the town – all fourteen vehicles – to pick up more supplies and search for more survivors. A prickling along senses Gibbs hadn't used in longer than he cared to admit sent him to the ground, McGee by his side a second later. The familiar sound of an automatic rifle peppering the area around them had him yelling “Down! Down, down!”. Those not fast enough were on the ground soon enough, boneless sprawl telling him they weren't getting up again.

Pulling his weapon from its holster, he started firing back in controlled bursts, conserving his ammo. He noticed McGee doing the same thing from the corner of his eye, glad of his calm while under fire.

It seemed a few more of their convoy had hidden weapons like he and McGee had, because the number of rounds being fired back into the surrounding buildings was more than he counted from McGee and himself. Though they weren't all as disciplined; several of them seemed to be set on automatic and firing randomly in the direction of their assailants.

Being pinned down in the middle of Main St was not a good place to be, so a quick motion to McGee and they were moving in opposite directions. Some of the military personnel followed each of them, taking their lead from both of them, covering their backs as they moved through a building to building search.

Soon enough it was over, the overeager militia who had taken over the town was captured and subdued. Setting up a perimeter, Gibbs returned to Main St to check out the damage. He looked over their casualties with an impassive eye. He was slipping more and more into the skin of the marine he used to be, realizing that despite the fact this was his own country, it was still a war zone.

They'd lost seven adults and two children in the ambush, and it was all Gibbs could do to look at the little girl of seven with blonde curls and a bullet hole through her neck and keep the memory of his own daughter out of his mind.

The wounded were more numerous, and it wasn't until near nightfall that he realized McGuire was one of them. He'd hidden it well, but the blood leaking through his black pants could no longer be hidden.

“I'll be fine,” he kept arguing even as their one exhausted medic probed deeper into the wound, searching for the source of the bleeding.

“I'll believe that when you're back on your feet and not in danger of bleeding out.” said Gibbs, turning to leave. He had his men to see to, and the civilians to reassure.

He didn't know when they'd become 'his' men, but after today's firefight that's what they were.

After that, they headed towards South Dakota, hoping that being so close to the edge of the main disaster area would keep more of the dangerous people out of their way. Gibbs found he'd become in charge of security for their group, taking charge of keeping them safe as they camped at night and making sure those able to wield a gun were able to. They no longer entered towns as they passed, but sent in small groups to see what they could scavenge from the stores and houses left abandoned. Or trade, if there were people willing to come out into the open.

They decided to head towards Sioux Falls when they became desperately in need of medical supplies, hoping that the bigger city would still have a mostly stocked hospital. Several of their wounded from North Platte had died from infections. They only had one emergency medic, but there wasn't a lot he could do without the proper antibiotics.

On top of that were the number of people developing breathing problems from all the ash still floating around in the air. The amount of oxygen in the air was also becoming an issue, as most of the plants and trees were starting to die from the loss of sunlight. Gibbs could feel it himself, the breathless that would come after some moderate exertion. No one spoke of it, except when it affected the kids. Oxygen tanks and asthma medication were added to the list.

Luck was with them as antibiotics and other medical supplies were gathered in Sioux Falls, as well as a fully qualified doctor named Haskens and her three medical students. Unfortunately, it was too late for Mike McGuire, who succumbed to his wound their last night in Sioux Falls. The infection had spread too far and was too persistent for antibiotics to have any effect.

Gibbs suddenly found himself in charge of their entire group, and was surprised to find less objection from them than he'd thought.

Haskens turned out to be an exceptional doctor, able to deal with everything that was thrown at her. Her attitude, however, always set Gibbs on edge, especially her anti-military rants. If they hadn't needed her and her trained monkeys (medical students who seemed to stand around and gawk at her until she barked at them to move), he would have cheerfully shot her within the first week. Or at least kicked her off in the middle of an open field.

Gibbs didn't know when the post-apocalyptic scifi world had become a reality, but he really regretted scoffing at the incongruity of those books instead of reading them. Maybe then he'd have some idea of what he was suppose to do with these people he was responsible for.

“You've been leading us and keeping us alive for the last weeks,” McGee said when Gibbs mentioned it to him days later. They were looking over a new-ish map of the US, wondering where they should go next. Gibbs made sure he spoke with every new person they picked up, getting a feel for them and how much trouble they'd cause. He also got as much intel from each of them as he could. He didn't like not knowing what was waiting for them in the next town, but they were still too close to the epicenter of the eruption. The toxic gases and dust were still heavy in the air. They couldn't keep moving forever, but setting down roots anywhere near the mid-West was suicide.

“We could stay here for a few weeks,” suggested McGee after a bit. “We have enough supplies to last for at least that long, and it would give everyone a chance to rest.”

Gibbs considered that, realizing that they'd been moving for months already. The area was secure and his people needed some time to cope with everything they had witnessed. There was also the need to decide on a route. Word of mouth throughout the survivors said to avoid Illinois and Indiana altogether. Gibbs was happier not knowing.

That set the pattern for the next months. Moving along for a few weeks, gathering up supplies and people as they travelled from state to state, then building a temporary camp where they would stay for three to four weeks.

With this extra bit of stability in an uncertain world, people started to group together. Everyone called them 'families', even though it was rare to have a true blood connection between any of them. Every one had a different story of how they'd come to be in this caravan that was moving its way across the country, though not every story was shared. In fact, the only thing that was a more taboo topic than how someone came to join the caravan, was what life was like Before. The ruins of their previous lives were in rubble around them every time they looked outside their camp; stories of how good their life had been before Yellowstone blew only made them all realize what they had lost.

Not everyone adapted easily. Disappearances every few days were the norm, and finding the body of a friend who had found a way to end it all barely registered for most people. The children were the ones to adapt the fastest, taking each new day in stride with child-like acceptance that few adults could match. Still, every time a child ran by wearing a padded helmet, covered in dirt and wearing dark clothes, Gibbs felt a small stab of regret in his chest. The next generation would grow up knowing the sky was grey, how and what to ration for the optimal diet and what structures and materials made for the best cover.

They were living like gypsies in a third world war zone, and everyone knew it wouldn't change any time soon.

Unspoken was their destination. McGee knew that despite their convoluted path they were headed east, but he never mentioned it. Neither did anyone else. It was an open secret which no one seemed opposed to. Gibbs figured they were just happy to have a destination, and hopefully be alive when they got there.

Still, there were some who wanted to set up shop at whatever point they stopped at, and Gibbs found they lost groups of people every time they moved on from a long-term campsite. He really had no objection, as it meant fewer mouths to feed and bodies to protect. He let others try to cajole them back, but stayed silent. They knew what kind of life to expect if they stayed, and Gibbs was in no mood to convince them to remain with the caravan.

The ones he disliked were the ones that argued and complained about every decision and move he made. He noticed they were the ones who'd joined them after North Platte and the first ambush, only vaguely aware of just what kind of danger lay outside their carefully guarded perimeter. He privately referred to them as 'hippies', as they seemed to only see the peace-love-happiness of human nature. They hadn't quite clued in to the fact that the 'violence-loving cavemen' that they'd begun calling the soldiers, allowed them to keep up their 'hippy' attitudes.

There was a reason he'd remained a field agent instead of moving up the career ladder at NCIS; he hated politics.

Then came Des Moines.

Des Moines silenced even the most vocal of the dissenters. A team of twenty, including McGee, had gone in to trade for much needed supplies, but only seven had come out. Gibbs had breathed a sigh of relief when Tim had made it out, injured but alive. What he'd learned from him before he'd gone in for surgery sent a coil of cold rage through his gut.

They'd gone in to trade for supplies, and come back out two days late with injuries that Gibbs could tell were inflicted to simply cause pain and damage.

The night they returned, Gibbs and five others had gone back and cleaned the town of its 'undesirable elements' with such a cold efficiency that even Haskens and the hippies found they had no desire to argue. They had all seen the state McGee and the others had come back in.

They'd been taken prisoner minutes after making contact with the current residents, only finding out later that the largest group of people in the city were being run by a mentally unstable cult leader. He'd managed to infect or convert a large number of people to his special brand of insanity, and saw the arrival of outsiders as a sign from God.

The details hadn't been very clear on what they wanted out of Gibbs' people, but that hadn't stopped them from torturing and killing the men and women Gibbs had sent into town. They would all carry the scars of their capture, some more visible than others. McGee had taken some of the worst damage, putting himself between their captor's and his people. That hadn't stopped them from killing over half of them, but it had guaranteed the trust and loyalty of the people he had brought out when they escaped.

The only positive aspect to come out of the entire ordeal was that no one would ever again suggest that McGee was soft or weak. Gibbs had simply smiled a grim, satisfied smile when someone looked to him for confirmation of McGee's actions in rescuing their people. They all had a new look of respect for the man once he was out of surgery and wandering around their makeshift camp limping and bandaged.

Gibbs had only visited him once before he was let loose on the camp, saying only “Good job,” and squeezing his shoulder. To others it may have seemed faint praise for a man who had risked his life to rescue others, but the look in McGee's undamaged eye said he understood. Gibbs had never expected anything less from him, and he'd proven him right. Gibbs was proud of him.

Rumours and bits of radio chatter had them heading south for some time, avoiding the Great Lakes area and the surrounding states. Over the next few months they meandered their way through Missouri and Arkansas, searching for warmer weather at a leisurely pace and continuing their routine of 'move, collect, camp and rest'.

It was the first round of pregnancies that made Gibbs realize they needed to get where they were going, fast. They couldn't afford to lazily make their way across the states, because in a few months a good number of the women wouldn't be able to keep pace. They'd be moving even slower with newborns, and he didn't relish the idea of a canvas tent the only thing between him and a dozen screaming babies.

He was actually surprised that the issue hadn't presented itself before now.

Heading out of Tennessee, they stepped up the pace, a sense of urgency pushing them all forward at a pace they hadn't seen in close to a year, covering more ground in the following weeks than they had in the last six months.

The roads were more numerous, and so were the dangers. They started to see larger populations, but there were also fewer ways around them. They still detoured in obscure ways, trading for supplies and information whenever they could and trusting that they weren't being led into a trap. They made a large and tempting target as they had grown to over three hundred people.

And he made sure he knew every single one of them.

“What do you think?” he asked McGee one night as they studied the map. Cities were becoming more populated, but they were also becoming more dangerous. Their last information trade had hinted at massive power struggles in several of the major cities, and he didn't want to play Russian roulette with his people's safety.

“I think it's a good sign there hasn't been anything out of Washington,” said McGee, keeping his one good eye on the map. Some of the more industrious families had gotten their hands on some good quality leather at one of their stops and made him several covers for his damaged eye. Any questions Gibbs may have had about McGee's frame of mind since Des Moines vanished at that point. The younger man had looked genuinely pleased with the gifts, knowing as Gibbs did that it had cost them in trade. But they were good quality and not overly obvious – and not a black pirate's patch, either.

“Can we make it in time?” Gibbs asked more specifically, not needing McGee to voice what he was already thinking.

“If we push hard enough and only stop to trade when we absolutely need to, I think we might be able to make it before any of the babies start to come,” said McGee, pursing his lips in a way that meant Gibbs wasn't going to like what else he had to say. “But only if we change our route to pass through some of the larger cities.”

Gibbs looked at McGee, taking in how much the man had changed in the last year. The nervous agent who was always so uncertain of himself had become a confident and competent soldier, an excellent 2IC to his Commander role.

“It's dangerous to get that close to the bigger towns,” he said even while agreeing with McGee's assessment. Never before had he been praying for longer pregnancies.

“Tell the others. We'll head out at first light,” said Gibbs, knowing McGee would get everyone organized and moving in time.

The next few weeks were hard on everyone as they pushed their way through Tennessee, Kentucky and the Carolinas. Gibbs was constantly surprised at the number of people who continued to stay on, despite open offers from passing towns to stay. They lost a few that way, but for the most part the group stayed whole. Gibbs was both proud and scared that so many people had put their future in his hands, trusting him to find them a home.

Then their luck ran out when a twenty year old named Cindy went into labour. That halted the entire three hundred of them in southern Virginia, so close to their destination they could almost taste it. If it had been any of the other women, Gibbs would have kept moving forward. But Cindy had been having problems throughout the last months, and no one wanted to risk losing the first child born in the group.

So they stopped in the middle of an old corn field for three days as Dr Haskens tried her best to save both Cindy and her child. In the end, only the baby survived.

After the sombre burial, they struck camp and continued their journey to Washington. They managed to make it without any more emergency stops, and one extra member. Another of the women had gone into labour a day after they'd buried Cindy, but the woman was healthy and strong, so the second child was born in the back of an old trailer on the road out of Richmond.

Arriving in Washington, Gibbs was suddenly hesitant. So far, they'd seen groups and communities of people carving out a home in ruined towns and cities, but the one thing they'd all had in common was that they had a defined territory and defended that perimeter.

Just because they hadn't heard anything from Washington like they had from New York didn't mean there wasn't the same kind of war going on here. They also didn't know where the defined territories were.

He sent several teams of scouts into the concrete jungle with instructions on what to look for in both established territories and potential headquarters for their own group.

It was an anxious nine hour wait for Gibbs and those left behind, but eventually they came back with news. They had found a suitable location which was unoccupied and in good condition. They had also talked to a few of the random gangs in the area and found that there were four major groups in the city who all kept to themselves. There was no idea of who were in these groups, but the street rats had said they had a 'don't bother me, I won't bother you' agreement with the various sections.

That set Gibbs' mind at ease for a time, because that meant he wasn't likely to be embroiled in a territory war when he settled his people there.

Getting everyone settled was less a headache than he had anticipated, simply because they'd had almost a year of practice to get it right. The only difference was that they were settling in large apartment complex, and that this time it was permanent – or as permanent as you could get nowadays.

Gibbs bandied about some ideas with McGee on how to contact the rest of their team, but could come up with nothing that didn't involve sending their people out into unknown and possibly unfriendly territory. It was a big city, and specific people were gong to be even harder to find than before.

Neither mentioned that there may be no one left to contact.

A week after settling down, one of the perimeter guard stations radioed in for backup, saying they'd spotted a group of heavily armed people making their way towards their base.

They also said that Hannigan, the greenest of the three posted there, had taken some shots at them, attempting to scare them off. It hadn't worked and now they were in danger.

Gibbs grabbed McGee and a group of the nearest soldiers and headed to the guard post as fast as they could make it.

As they neared the abandoned parking garage, Gibbs got a feeling in his gut that he didn't like. Something was about to happen. It was the same feeling he'd had just before North Platte and Des Moines.

Making his way up the concrete stairs, McGee at his back, he heard muffled voices from the guard post. It was the first good sign they'd had since getting the radio call, because it meant – hopefully – that their people were still alive.

A quick motion to McGee, and they were through the doors, the other half of their squad flanking from the opposite side.

Coming around a corner, instincts raised his gun before his brain even processed the presence. He noticed a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye, but his attention remained fixed on the person in front of him, pointing his own weapon.

“DiNozzo?!” he asked, his voice and hand steady, not giving away the shock that trembled through his body.

The shocked gasp had a familiar and female overtone which he immediately filed under 'Kate', but Gibbs still couldn't take his eyes off of the man in front of him.

“Gibbs!?”

It was apparently mutual.

END


End file.
